


parallax

by Lvslie



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bickering, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Jam, Laundry, Post-Episode: s02e09 The Satan Pit, Teasing, Tension, UST, a lot of - Freeform, and
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 08:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13314054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lvslie/pseuds/Lvslie
Summary: ‘Intimacy,’ the Doctor enunciates firmly, with extreme pressure, nearly causing Rose to suffer a heart attack.





	parallax

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MegaBadBunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegaBadBunny/gifts).



> did I just ... write something Doctor/Rose? hell yeah I did!

 

There’s a crash.

‘Oops,’ the Doctor says, mildly. Then, ‘It wasn’t much of a teapot to look at, to be fair.’

‘Tell that to my mum,’ Rose replies brightly.

He mumbles something incoherent, and seconds later she can hear the sonic screwdriver whirring.

She’s perched half-reclined on the sagged sofa that has once been periwinkle and now tilts precariously towards light blue, dressed in the likely most haggard-looking collection of clothes she owns. Almost everything else is in the laundry — and that is, indeed, _why_ they are here at all, in her mother’s tiny flat — to do the laundry, because for all intents and purposes, the TARDIS seems to have launched a vendetta against their clothes.

 _Or, the Doctor’s clothes_ , Rose thinks, licking her spoon thoughtfully. It’s him who procures the weirdest stains on the ungodly amount of identical shirts and socks he owns. She mostly just gives the washing machine a break.

Still, her point stands — she’s wearing a washed-out T-shirt of dubious heritage, baggy shorts from some forgotten pyjama set and mismatched socks that seem to have once belonged to Mickey, judging by the size. Her hair is held up with a reclining network of bobby pins. She’s eating raspberry jam out of a jar, because apparently mirroring mechanisms of her inferior human brain cannot _quite_ resist the influence of a Time Lord jam propaganda. She hasn’t done her hair in a long, long time, her roots are showing, and there’s a red _Clifford the Big Red Dog_ bandaid planted on the side of her neck where she’s been bitten by … by … well, that _thing_. That biting thing from that planet.

So there’s really no reason for the Doctor to look at her as fondly as she keeps catching him doing from the kitchen. Come to think of it, she could probably pose for the poster of _Bridget Jones: the Prequel._

Rose sticks her raspberry-coloured tongue at the Doctor. He huffs indignantly.

She watches him for a while, then, from across the room: buttoned-up, lanky and quite adorable as he frowns at something he’s tinkering with. Rose feels a slight rush of a vague indescribable emotion, a bit like affection, a bit like possessiveness, up her veins.

He’s standing in her old cluttered kitchen, currently eating jam out of a jar with naught but his fingers — _tinkering object mystery solved_ — socked but shoe-less, and has just begun studying Jackie’s grocery list with a smirk. It is most likely as domestic as it gets with him — brief, messy and heavily sloth-oriented — and curiously enough, it happens to be her exact level of preference as well.

She sometimes thinks he doesn’t realise how little she cares for the kind of stuff he typically admonishes in humans. He doesn’t realise how well she understands the urge to flee: laundry and fridge remains, that’s all good in moderate doses, but would she ever like to go back to being stuck in this? God, no, _never_.

 _Still, maybe it’s for the better he doesn’t_ , a little wry voice in her head notes dutifully. _This is just one tiny chapter in a very fat old book, and you’re a guest cameo. Get what you can while you can. Then it’s going to be over before you know it and —_

 _And slowly_ , Rose thinks bitterly, _you will be forgotten._

Something in her gut tightens. It’s like a touch of a cold hand on her neck, that thought, relentless and sneaky, stinging her when she least expects it, over and over again. Silently, she purses her lips and looks down onto the old plaid blanket she’s bundled in.

The Doctor licks his fingers thoroughly, sets down the empty jar and drifts closer, hands tucked into pockets, hips pushed slightly forward. _Drifting_ is not a chance description: it does almost look unplanned, this slow meandering towards the couch, even while she knows it isn’t, not in the slightest.

And sure enough, he soon hovers over her shoulder and then plonks down onto the sofa, babbling about something inconsequential. Without ceremony, he hooks a hand under her knees — unflinching even at the touch of bare skin under the blanket — and throws her legs over his lap.

She probably should be flustered, or something along the lines — but the thing is, it’s not unusual at all. It doesn’t lead to anything, either, it doesn’t progress. It’s just the Doctor, being … whatever the hell he is.

Maybe she’s _been_ flustered, at some early point, sometime right after his regeneration when he’s first done something along the lines: cuddled up and started talking about alien subliminal messages in company calls while she froze.

By now, however, she’s able to stoically nudge him in the ribs so that he stops squashing her hand, and inquire, ‘D’you want to finish my jam?’

In lieu of response, he detracts the jar from her hand with deft long fingers and hums appreciatively. His head falls back on the couch, spiky hair dangling over his eyes as he peers at the telly.

Rose doesn’t realise she’s been passively watching a documentary about waddling birds of South Africa until he says, mouth full and voice dry, ‘Fascinating.’

‘Shut up,’ Rose says, biting her lip, ‘I’ve never been there.’ 

‘That statement applies to about a trillion possible and more interesting places in the galaxy,’ the Doctor points out. 

‘Uh-huh. So you keep saying, and the trillion doesn’t dwindle.’

There’s a moment of almost comfortable silence as the Doctor studiously licks his fingers clean and breathes out so deeply that she can feel his chest deflate. She almost convinces herself the earlier slither of unease is gone.

‘Mm,’ the Doctor then says. ‘This is … good stuff right here, let me tell you. D’you know, there’s this poem, which starts with _if there are any heavens_ , and I don’t really remember what goes next, but there’s this bit about roses being there. In those heavens. Which is, as I’m presently finding, accurate. Roses. Or _a_ Rose.’

There’s a pause. ‘What I mean is,’ he says idly, voice thick. ‘Can I keep you?’

Rose laughs.

‘Nooo, you don’t do that,’ she says mindlessly, voice airy and quite foreign, as she flicks a grape into her mouth. ‘You don’t _keep_ things that have a short expiry date.’

Everything comes to a jarring, rapid halt. The entirety of air the living room’s slightly stuffy air seems to hold its breath.

 _Why did I say that_ , Rose instantly demands of herself, frantic. She stares at the telly with a nervous, cold feeling low in her stomach. _Even if he deserved it. Even if … why  the bloody hell did I say that, and why now?_

‘What?’ the Doctor says quietly, voice hollow.

Rose’s brain has apparently shut off remote control, because her mouth doesn’t do the reasonable thing and she doesn’t shut up there and then.

‘You heard me,’ she says instead, evenly, plucking another grape from the bowl and flicking it into her mouth. ‘Banana crisp?’

‘ _No_ ,’ he says, indignantly. She can feel his eyes boring into the side of her face, and she pointedly doesn’t meet them. ‘Don’t  you … _banana crisp_ me, Rose Tyler. I did, in fact, hear you, with my hearing acuteness level it would be quite implausible for me _not_ to hear you, but I refuse to believe you just said that.’

Rose raises her eyebrows, her earlier panic morphing slowly into irritation. She feels slightly sick to her stomach. ‘Why?’

‘Why?’ He’s staring at her with an expression of horror. ‘ _Why?_ ’

Annoyed, Rose looks away, ‘Fine, don’t tell me.’

‘No — I just — I just … don’t you _see_ why?’

She shrugs one shoulder, picking at her grape. ‘Not really, no.’

Looking stunned, he changes the tactic. ‘What you said, was that in reference to the conversation we had when … when we … with, uh, Sarah Jane? Because I thought we’ve dis —’

Rose sighs and rubs at her eyes, interrupting him. She picks up another grape. ‘Yeah, sort of. God, Doctor, just leave it, okay? Pretend you didn’t hear or something. Should be easy, that.’

There’s another mortified silence. ‘Rose, what on Earth are you —’ 

‘Nothing.’ Irked — and mostly at herself, too — she stuffs an entire _cantuccini_ cookie in her mouth, then reaches over to the table and swallows down some wine from her glass. It’s white, considerably sweet, leaves a burning — if not unpleasant — aftershock in her throat.

‘That’s the point, _nothing_. It was nothing; a joke. You got your … white lie or whatever, I bit back. Unnecessarily. Seriously, Doctor, let’s press pause on this, okay?’ 

He somehow manages to sound more hurt than a kicked puppy when he asks the next question, and it frustrates Rose more than she’s thought it possible, simply because he has _no right to do that._ ‘Is that really how you think I see you?’

She winces slightly, eyes fixed on the telly. God, she should not have said that. Nobody wants to go into _that_ , herself the very least. ‘Dunno. How _do_ you see me?’

His voice grows suddenly cool, guarded. ‘I should think that’s obvious.’

 _You asshole_ , Rose thinks instantly, sharply, the thought crystal clear in her mind. There’s another rush of warmth, only this time — not so pleasant. 

Before he can proceed with any answer, she turns her head to him, and beams — her broadest, friendliest smile: no teeth, no coyness, just plain sweetness. Her expression clearly throws him off balance, because he blinks and frowns.

‘If it’s obvious,’ Rose says, brightly, all smile and nothing else, ‘then what exactly surprised you?’

He freezes.

She can see it: every muscle in his long, wiry body tensing. Still blindingly amiable, she turns away, now smiling at the television set.

 _If it was a cruel thing to say_ , she thinks, hardly even seeing the programme. _Then gods forgive me, I’d say it again any time. And anyway, he’s been much, much more than this, much, much more often._  

After a while of utter, hollow silence, the Doctor manages to stutter,  ‘Rose, I …  I’m not … I’d never —’ 

Rose closes her eyes, ‘Oh my God, stop. Don’t do that.’

‘But you … Rose, you are _so much more_ than —’

‘Doctor, _stop_. Please.’ She purses her lips, the unpleasant ill feeling blooming into full-blown nausea. ‘Don’t … do that. Okay? Just don’t.’

He’s still staring at her, and she still won’t meet his eyes. ‘Do what?’ he repeats, tremulously.

Rose hugs her arms to herself. ’Whatever it is, this … pity thing. I don’t know. I don’t want you doing it.’

His voice is wary, cautious. ‘Okay.’

‘Okay,’ Rose echoes, feeling cold and empty.

Silence stretches between them, and she tries not to think about how much direct physical contact is currently also _between_ them, while she thinks it really shouldn’t — but she can’t exactly do anything about it, not if she wants to pretend nothing’s happened. Not if she wants things to be moderately normal afterwards. 

‘You know, Time Lords never really do that,’ the Doctor says suddenly, conversationally, startling her.

Rose blinks, half-relieved by the sudden swerve of topic, and half-disappointed. _Still,_ she thinks. _Difficult to expect anything less._

‘Do what?’ she asks, shooting him a sideways glance.

The Doctor is not looking at her, instead gazing at the telly, eyes round and gleaming. The blue light spills over his face, softening the sharper lines and bringing out the milder: a scattering of freckles, the smooth curve of a pale cheek. A dimple. 

The vague emotion comes back suddenly, somehow un-stifled by her bitter episode, creeping up unbidden. Rose can’t help an involuntary idea of reaching out to brush her fingers past the soft short hair just over his temple.

She half-smiles, mutely, thinking, _point is, you’re an asshole, but you’re the only asshole  in those trillion places you mentioned I’d want to be here. Point is, this conversation doesn’t even matter. You could change the topic to banana pilsner, I’d still love you. You’re an oblivious alien hypocrite, and I still love you._

‘This,’ the Doctor meanwhile says, unaware. His voice is oddly clipped.

Rose blinks and frowns, curling up slightly and making sure her hand is _not_ in contact with any part of his face — bit of a hypocrisy on her part, again, given how her bare legs, warm under the blankets, are still thrown across his knees, his shoulder is flush against hers, and his one arm draped loosely behind her.

 _Wonder what you’d do if I stopped beating around the bush and actually made a move,_ she thinks, suddenly amused. _Jump out of the window, probably. At light speed._

‘ _Intimacy_ ,’ the Doctor enunciates firmly, with extreme pressure, nearly causing Rose to suffer a heart attack. 

_Oh, for … for the love of something, did you just read my thoughts? Can you even DO that?_

‘W-what?’ she splutters before she manages to stop herself. ‘What do you —’

He blinks slowly — an owlish captivating movement of long lashes scattering a fluctuating shadow over the freckles by the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t move, eyes transfixed ahead of him.

‘This, Rose Tyler, all this is very … _intimate_ for my standards. I rather hoped you knew that, but … ah, _well_ , I could have just projected my hoping onto what’s reasonable. In fact, I … probably did. After all, how would you know? There’s literally now way of … And I’m just lousy with saying stuff, aren’t I? First grade lousy. Tall grande venti lousy.’

Rose stares at him with her eyes blown wide, the nervous feeling in her belly momentarily smothered by sheer incredulity. ‘Doctor, are you ill?’

The Doctor huffs, ‘Really, Rose. _Now_ you’re pushing it.’

‘No, I’m serious,’ Rose presses, solemn. She feels slightly dizzy, and she doubts it’s what little wine she’s had. ‘Did you get … possessed or something? Cassandra making rounds again?’

He turns to her and the expression of his face effectively shuts her up. The Doctor’s eyes are always the most tellingly vulnerable of his entire being, Rose has decided ages ago, large and full of unsaid things. But right here, right now —half-defense and half-question — they are heart-stopping.

‘This is my fault. I should have _known_. You,’ he says, very quietly, ‘have _no_ idea how Time Lord infatuation works.’

‘Uhm,’ Rose manages to choke out, more than a little thrown off balance. She becomes hyper-aware of the brush of her burningly warmed-up skin, right under the knee, against his trousers, and of the structure of _his_ knee and slim thigh underneath. His one hand remains innocuously adjacent to her hipbone, one of his fingers brushing directly past the juncture of her shorts’ waistband and the hem of her T-shirt. 

Slightly panicked, Rose fixates on her breathing, or rather, on how he can probably already tell that there’s something’s off and rushed about it. Her cheeks have flushed, uncomfortably, and maybe she can blame it on the wine, but God. _God_. She’s no lightweight, and he knows it. 

‘Yeah, well,’ she mumbles. ‘Er, good point. I don’t.’

‘Well, it’s …’ he trails off for a slight moment, looking thoughtful as his eyes drop from her face — the improvement is marginal, however, as they settle on her collarbone, exposed under the askew collar of the rumpled T-shirt and Rose wants to _squirm_. His fingers on her waist move almost imperceptibly, involuntarily. She’s not sure if it’s not projected. ‘Hm. How do I explain it?’

One of the corners of his mouth tugs up, almost unnoticeably. ‘It’s slow.’

Something inside Rose’s brain shuts down for good. Oh _fuck_.

His voice is torture; it’s like evil temptation incarnated, and Rose has shot off a Devil into outer space, she would _know_. It’s low, vibrating, deliberate. He certainly hasn’t ever addressed her in such a voice from such close proximity.

‘Slower than human matters, less … conspicuous. It’s a lot of debating, you understand. A lot of stolen glances at various time threads. A lot of _maths_ , a lot of calculations of probability and tangents, spying for points of interception. A lot of frustration because you can stare at the threads all you want but none of them will actually walk you to the door and knock, and none of them will make you say what you need to say. It’s a lot of … dithering. Bit counter-effective, the whole endeavour. Because we are rather a load, the time folk. We’re quite unsuitable for light treading, we’re … a handful. Er. Mostly, though, it’s just prolonging the inevitable, because once a Time Lord gets an idea into the head, especially _such_ an idea, well, there’s no way around it, is there? I would know. No escape — ah, a fixed thing, this. Fixed solid.’

Rose forgets to breathe.

There are. _Fingers_ pulling at the waistband. Of her shorts. God. _Damn_ it.

She exhales heavily, audibly, fishing for the words in the remains of her still-working brain and fascinated by how she’s somehow able to say them out loud, ‘Does this … fixed thing … include actually _fixing things_ which are good, and really shouldn’t be constantly … broken?’

He looks up again and _oh look_ , he has swayed closer, or maybe both of them have, because there’s only a space of one breath between them and Rose’s lips part on their own accord.

‘It _does_ ,’ he says, ‘very much so. But, _ah_ , what probably needs saying is — those good things, they’ve also only been … broken, because we’re dealing with a sort of broken specimen here, so to say.’

‘Oh,’ Rose says, quite breathlessly, coaxing him forward gently by the lapels of the still-unshed suit jacket, heart hammering in her chest, ‘good thing I’m quite the handywoman, then.’

The kiss happens exactly in the moment when the last syllable should dissipate into nothing and catches the rest of her breath in his mouth. She’s pretty sure it’s him who bridges that last gap and rushes forward. His nose bumps into hers.

 _Oh, goodness_ , she thinks dumbly, when he leans away.

‘Yeah,’ the Doctor says, almost sheepishly.

Rose stares at him, blinking rapidly, and unable to release his lapels from her hands. There are questions, questions dancing in her head. Finally one, spills out, ‘Why … now?’

He looks at her, those big sad eyes again. ‘I hurt you. Again. That just simply wouldn’t do— _mhh_.’

 _Well_. This time it’s definitely her. He even makes a _noise_ , a surprised one, and she decides that she would like a repeat from hearing it.

‘That … fixed thing,’ she murmurs against his mouth, and then moves away, leaving him inclined forward with mouth in a slight pout. ‘Not usual, is it? Not a common affliction?’

‘No,’ he says roughly, staring at her lower lip, ‘quite the contrary.’

‘Mm,’ Rose says, allowing one of her hands to travel up and trace the line of his neck and jawline, leisurely exploring. He closes his eyes when she touches his hair. ‘What are the symptoms?’

‘Violent— _ah_ —inclination.’

Oh, that sound. That sound is even _better_.

‘Randomly selected?’ she inquires, shifting her legs so that each of her knees is on the other side of his legs and repositioning herself onto his lap.

‘No, no—unexpectedly revealed,’ the Doctor clarifies hastily, eyes darting between her mouth and legs, attempting to categorise the aim of her movement. He licks his lips. ‘Still. Soundly justified.’

‘Reasonable, then?’ She’s hovering above him now, both hands splayed on his chest, complimentary — and quickened — rhythm echoed from each side. She leans in slightly, not quite kissing, not quite _inviting_ for a kiss. He turns up his face anyway.

He’s grinning. ‘Ah, no, not in the slightest. Not _remotely_.’ 

‘But properly … focused?’ She runs one hand up the lapel of his jacket, up to the collar. The other one pulls at the one button that’s not yet undone.

He swats her hand away, moves forward, keeping her steady by his hands on her hips. His face is very close. ‘Fixated, sharply. To the point of resistance.’

Rose is grinning now, and then biting her lower lip, and her eyes flutter down to his mouth. She leans back in to peck him lightly in one of its corners, almost on the cheek. _Tease_.

‘And the afflicted—he suffers much?’

He very nearly purrs. ‘Indescribably.’

‘Troubled, is he?’ There’s no point disregarding his hands that are sliding upwards underneath her shirt, pleasantly cool against her skin.

‘Well …’ he smiles coyly, ‘increasingly less so.’

She pauses a millimetre from his lips, eyes closed, almost touching. ‘Willing?’

‘Oh,’ he breathes out, ‘ _eager_.’ 


End file.
